The Tiny Gourmand: Apricot-Frangipane Tart

-A classic recipe and a new kitten make for an excellent weekend.-

After she bit my finger we realized she had taken on a proper affinity for the name we had given her, our little Zola. Short, of course, for Gorgonzola. We named her because calling her The Kitten for the past week left a bland aftertaste of indifference in our mouths that none of us cared for. The name Zola had given her a sense of character and bequeathed her a piquant chutzpah and certain regality reminiscent of her namesake.

Romantic as I try to make it the name was originally picked out because she smelled outrageously funky when we plucked her stray little self out of the garden like a fuzzy little turnip where she had been hiding under the thick tomatillo canopy. We heard her mewling and lost, separated from her mother and siblings. We quickly went out and carefully - delicately -chased, cornered, and captured her. It was a difficult task considering how tiny and fast she is. She hissed and cried when I picked her up in my Ove-Glove guarded hands. She was scared and terrified of the giants that her missing mother had trained her to fear.

She spent the night wrapped in a warm blanket with a bowl filled to the brim with food and a saucer of water. She seemed to take her sudden imprisonment with quiet fortitude and guarded distrust.

Yet, in less than a day, she softened to us. The next morning I quietly crept into her room. As I cooed to her like a new mother she nervously crawled out from her sheets. She cowered when I reached for her but made no sudden dash. Her hackles were just barely bristled from tension, but she allowed me to pet her. As I stroked her neck and cheek she erupted with purring. It was a soft sound that bellowed from her tiny frame and filled the room. She cradled herself against my chest, looked at me and went to sleep.

-She also enjoys sleeping with Cid.-

The next morning she was dumped into the sink and given her first bath. Scrubbed and soaked she dealt with it with a begrudging quiet like a student being lectured by a teacher he doesn't particularly care for. Though, given her size, it wasn't as if she could escape my hands, which were able to keep her securely in the water. A few minutes later, fluffed dry and fed, she ran into the other room to continue her very full kitten schedule of napping, snuggling, playing, and pooping.

I was smitten with the kitten. Soon, she as well with me. More so with Roommate whom she snuggled mercilessly and whom she cried for whenever he wasn't around.

Her wiles have worked their magic as he has decided to adopt her.

Christ. It's now four cats to three gay men in this apartment. How stereotypical sitcom is that? Punch my pink card because I'm done.

As I type this Zola is attempting to chew my fingers, which is making blogging rather difficult. It makes me miss those first few days of her tepid uncertainty back before she was ricocheting around the apartment with all the vim and vinegar of youth and attempting to devour my hands for another morsel of cheese.

-A perfect sun for a cloudy day.-

Allow me to explain the cheese and finger nipping.

You see, a few hours ago I was nibbling a piece of Parmesan when a small crumb fell to the floor. She instantly pounced on and devoured it out of kittenhood curiosity. (She is, after all, at that stage where kids put everything they find into their mouths.) A swallow and some smacking of the lips and she had had her first accidental taste of human food. Immediately, Zola began frantically scouring the floor for more, hunting furtively like a meth addict searching for a good shard of glass.

I picked her up to comfort and tease her a bit. That was my mistake. My fingers still smelled of cheese. She sniffed them and without any thought chomped down on my fingers with her needlepoint teeth as deep as they would go. She didn’t break skin, but, holy hell, enthusiastic kitten bites hurt. When I yelped she wasn’t even fazed. She smelled the cheese on my breath and lunged for my face licking my lips and greedily sucking up my curdy breath in a purr-heavy frenzy.

You could see it in her eyes, "MORE!" they screamed. "MORE WHATEVER THAT WAS!"

Through the fate of a name and allowing the feline employment of the Five Second Rule I had created a monster. A fuzzy, adorable one that sleeps under your chin and enjoys wrestling an old shoe lace, but a monster nonetheless. A monster with a taste for cheese.

Roommate is understandably concerned.

Zola now seems to be an Eat Beast in training. She follows him around in epic, playful battle. He’s her mountain to climb and his erratic tail her dragon to be vanquished. Eat Beast takes it in stride simply sitting there and only showing protest when she bites his tail a wee bit too hard. He cleans her, takes her to the water dish, and generally looks after her. Still, we’ve made a clear cut policy in this home that she will not be allowed people food ever again.

-How much luck do you really think we're having with that policy?-

Which, you know, is going to be a difficult rule to enforce. She trails after Eat Beast and is taking his unintentional tutoring to heart. When he starts sniffing around a plate of cookies and snatches one away she follows along, takes a bite of his loot, and then decides to go back for a cookie of her own. When he sneaks into the fridge she does the same. She, too, has an unhealthy curiosity for what's under the lid of the butter dish. God help us all.

So, with that, the structured life of our apartment - that of myself, BF, Roommate, and the three cats - was suddenly turned upside down with a rambunctious ten week-old kitten. We couldn’t be happier for it, if not also slightly freaked out since kittens are essentially perpetual motion machines that constantly eat and poop. This one with a particular inclination towards the former.

It’s also not just cheese she seems to crave. She has a taste for apricots, both raw and cooked. Zola is a gourmand in training with a bit more of a discerning palate than Eat Beast. While Eat Beast goes for anything and everything; Zola is a picky, little snob. I can whip out some dime store lunch meat and she won't bat an eye. I roast a duck and sauce it with cherry-balsamic and she's all over me like a hooker on a hundred dollar bill.

-"Soon, little apricots, soon you will be mine."-

So, as we do with Eat Beast, I now put her in the other room when I bake just to keep her out of the way. If I don't she circles the kitchen and has a tendency to get in the way. And, while she still can't jump on the counter, we're trying to instill a sense that even thinking about jumping on on it is a quick way to get hosed down with the spray bottle.

We're also trying to teach her not to try and scale us like a mountain when we eat. I swear, every time I take a meal it's like a race between her and me to see just who is going to eat what's at the business end of my fork. Lucky for me, she's tiny and I'm faster. The bad news is that during our races she has no qualms using her tiny claws to scale up my pant leg and the leg within it.

It's going to take some time to train her. (Dear God, I hope we can train her.)

-Cute and mischievous: A rather evil combination when it comes to kittens, cute people you meet at the bar, and children.-

I do have some hope. She did stay clear for the most part while I crafted together this tart. A simple shortbread crust, frangipane, the first sunny apricots of the season. The fruit was surprisingly ripe in spite of this ridiculously bipolar weather this Spring. Biting into one the juice burst out and ran down my arm onto the floor where Eat Beast and Zola gleefully lapped it up. I lightly lacquered the apricots with a brushing of honey mixed with a bit of rose water before dusting it all with a bit of pistachio to liven up an otherwise homespun treat.

I guess this tart - at least, for me - is a way to celebrate change in life by bringing in something old and familiar. A new kitten, child, job, home... it can all be stressful. These things throw your life into a bit of chaos. Chaos that you revel in, but chaos nonetheless. It's freaky and exciting, and it will make you exhausted. A plain 'ol tart, your favorite cake, or whatever comfort foods you enjoy are ways to mellow things out.

Celebrate the new by ringing it in with the old.

Just be sure that you keep an eye on the new because the second you turn your head it might get sneaky and eat the old.


Apricot-Frangipane Tart
Frangipane recipe adapted from David Lebovitz's, Room for Dessert

For Shortbread Crust
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 cup sugar
pinch salt
1 stick (1/2 cup) unsalted butter, cold, cut into cubes
2 egg yolks
3 teaspoons ice-cold vanilla extract
1-3 teaspoons ice-cold water

1. Place the flour, sugar and salt in a food processor and pulse a few times to blend. Add the butter and pulse until the butter is the size of peas. In a bowl whisk together the egg yolks and vanilla extract. Pour into the flour mixture and process for about 5-10 seconds until clumps form. Do not let it form into a ball. You should be able to squeeze the crumbs together rather easily. If they fall apart add a teaspoon of water ad pulse several times. Test again and repeat if necessary.

2. Turn the dough out on a lightly floured work surface and knead the dough 2-3 times to bring it all together. Pat it into the shape of a disc. Wrap it in plastic wrap and chill for about 20 minutes. Roll the dough out between two pieces of wax paper. (If it cracks, let the dough sit for a few minutes until it softens. Roll the dough into an 11-inch tart plate and press into place.

3. Preheat oven to 375F. Line the unbaked tart shell with foil and fill with pie weights or dry beans to prevent the crust from bubbling during the prebake. Bake for 20 minutes. The foil should come away easily and not tear the dough (if not, bake for a few more minutes). Bake for 10 more minutes. Allow to cool completely.


For Frangipane
4 ounces almond paste, crumbled
1 1/2 teaspoons of sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons all-purpose flour
pinch of salt
1/8 teaspoon almond extract
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into pieces, room temperature
1 large egg, room temperature

While the tart shell bakes place almond paste, sugar, flour, and salt in a food processor and process until crumbly and almost sandy. Add the butter and process until smooth. Add the egg and extracts and process until smooth.


For Finishing the Tart
4-6 ripe apricots, cut into quarters lengthwise
1/4 cup honey
1/2 teaspoon rose water
pistachios for garnish (optional)

1. Spread the frangipane onto the prebaked tart shell. Arrange the apricots into a circle. Bake for 30-40 minutes or until the frangipane is slightly golden and firm. Cool on a wire rack.

2. While it cools heat the honey and rose water in cup in the mixrowave or in a saucepan. Brush onto the apricots, being careful to avoid the crust. Garnish with finely chopped pistachios for garnish is desired.

-Success! Om nom nom!-

It's Horrid Outside: Potato & Onion Galette

-Rain, rain, go away. Come again another day. And when you do I will bake. Many tasty to things to make.-

It is horrid outside. "We need the rain in California," I say out loud to Eat Beast who stares towards the garden where the sky is apparently falling. Californians say this phrase to themselves and each other when it gets bad. I tell it to myself every Spring when it starts to come down so hard that the rivers threaten to wash out the many poorly conceived suburban sprawls incongruously built in the many flood plains here in Sacramento.

Listening to the peal of the rain striking the apartment I can’t help but go to the window and join the cat and look outside. The rain is blowing nearly horizontal and I’m worried about all the plants I just put into the ground. I’m praying they don’t get uprooted, broken, or drowned in all this. I fight the urge to check on them. Right now going outside for any reason is not only unappealing but insane It's true that we do need the rain. However, no one said anything about being happy about it.

A large crack sounds and a tree branch the size of a Harley from the nearby Eucalyptus suddenly crashes with a thunderous thud on top of the metal corrugated roof of the parking spots behind my fence. I stare at the branch and am relieved that it didn’t land in my yard on the baby tomatoes plants. Eat Beast's hackles are raised and a moment later he takes off to hide in the closet. And, with that, I decide that it’s time to dice up a stick of butter.

-And get a few other things ready as well.-

Pâte brisée, a fancy word for very buttery pie dough, is something I’ve become rather skilled at making. I learned how to make it from my friend, Elise, and with it gained from her some good advice about it. One particularly important tip is that at the first inkling I have of wanting to make a pie or galette you chop up some butter and toss it in the freezer. (Cold butter is key to flakey pie dough.)

I now whip out sticks of butter for dough at the slightest whim. Pining for an asparagus galette for dinner? I’m on it. Desiring some comfort food because your girlfriend dumped you for some ass with an emo haircut and a tribal band tattoo? Give me an hour and we’ll have pecan pie. Bored on a Friday night? Come to my house. We can whip together a fig and nut tart and do tequila and Serrano ham shots off the neighbor's stomach, and, yes, this is a thing that I did once in college.

Regardless of the situation, just let me butcher and freeze this butter and we'll be golden. Still, more often than not it's the chilling rain and winds that spur me to get down the food processor and get a bowl of ice water ready. I feel that pâte brisée, especially when baking and at its most fragrant, is the fatty, flaky antithesis of late Winter and early Spring storms. Shitty weather puts me in the mood for comfort food and right now something hearty and filling surrounded by crusty, golden, almost regrettably packed with too much butter crust sounds perfect.

I take a stick of butter and chop it up into ½-inch cubes before dropping them in the bowl and cram them in the freezer, teetering on a carton of ice cream between a vacuum-sealed duck and an opened bag of ice.

After about an hour of teasing the cat with his toys (the both of us feel this to be an hour well spent) I toss the butter along with some flour and salt into the food processor and pulse it a few times. This time I’m smart enough to cover with my hand that one spot on the processor where the top and base don’t quite meet. Forgetting to do that means a tall dusty plume of flour will shoot directly into my face like an old vaudeville gag. Usually - naturally - I only seem to forget when I have company or am wearing black. Its always humorous to everyone but me. I usually mutter out four or five f-bombs in a single sentence and change shirts.

-Seriously, though, the ferocity of my swearing is enough to make the bluest cheese blush.-

Once the butter has broken down to the size of peas a few tablespoons of ice water are dropped in and pulsed until the whole thing resembles a coarse meal that easily pinches together. It all gets loosely kneaded into a ball and wrapped up in plastic. The whole process take about 2 minutes. Wham, bam, thank-you-Sam for we have crust.

It chills out in the fridge while I chill out on the couch with the now tired Eat Beast who only occassioanally lifts his head in response to the wind taking down another tree branch. I read a book, he naps on my lap, the dough sets.

The rain continues to beat down on the windows and sounds of wind echo out the fireplace as if some disoriented Jabberwocky lost itself inside and was howling for assistance. Eat Beast tries not to show it but a flick of his ears in the direction of the threatening moan and the sharp pain of his nails gripping my leg tell me he's alarmed. It is tempting to investigate the sound a bit more but a good book and 15 pounds of cat keep me in place.

A little bit later I kick the fat puss off and I start digging through the pantry and fridge looking for whatever ingredients will make for a whatever-but-satisfying filling. As long as the final product tastes good and chases the gloomy overcast of the weather out of the apartment I really don’t care. I uncover a yellow onion, a red potato, some mustard, and some fresh thyme. The scraps from a wedge of Gruyere and some Maytag blue cheese also make the cut. Fine fillings for a savory galette.

-Any sort of cheese you might have on hand will be just fine for this.-

The onion gets thinly sliced and tossed into a skillet with some olive oil and ground pepper. While it sweetens and becomes golden in color like slivers of topaz I start slicing up the potato and shredding the cheeses. BF picks up the thyme and asks if he can help but I take it out of his hands and shoo him away. Stripping thyme is one of my favorite tasks in the kitchen. I enjoy how its aroma wraps around my head and makes me giddy, and I love how it lingers on my fingers for hours after. It reminds me that I was at least somewhat productive in my day. The dough gets rolled out, the fillings layered and tucked in, and I kick the oven door closed.

I slump back down on the couch and willfully ignore the responsibilities I know I should be attending too. The past few weeks have been overkill for me. Project after project, assignment after assignment, let alone the attempts to constantly resuscitate a social life and keep a healthy and active relationship with another human being and three cats have kept me busy.

Today’s depressing weather and that snap of the tree was enough to finish me off. I decided to play hookey from my life that day. I was going to read online comics while a galette bakes in the oven. My chores and have-to’s and To-Do lists would all be there tomorrow, but for now I plan to whip the beasts into their cages and lock the gates. They’ll be just fine left unattended for the day.

The galette finished and it smells like everything old fashioned cooking, warm, golden, and crinkled. It feels like the old fashioned type of cooking you always hear your grandparents wax on about. I imagine that if you could distill their frayed and ancient cookbooks into a flavor it would taste like this. Hot and crunchy, packed with herbs and with just the right tang from the cheeses.

I don’t know if this is French food, but it feels so rustic French countryside. It looks it at least. I imagine it tastes like some part of France I’ve never been to I’m proud of myself as French food isn’t my forte and imagine that Dorie Greenspan and Julia Child would both be quite proud of me.


Potato & Onion Galette Makes 1 Galette galette dough adapted from Simply Recipes
1 1/3 cup of all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoon sugar
4 ounces (1 stick) butter, cut into cubes and frozen
1/4 cup of chilled water (plus a little more)
1 large red potato
1/2 onion
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 1/2 teaspoons fresh thyme, chopped
2 ounces blue cheese
3 ounces Gruyere
salt and pepper
Dijon mustard

1. Put the flour, salt, and sugar into a food processor and pulse to combine. Add the butter and pulse 9 times until the butter is in the size of peas. Slowly add the water while pulsing until the dough begins to form clumps and looks a bit like corn meal that pinches together easily. Empty the dough onto a clean surface, form into a ball with minimum handling. Pat down into a disc shape. Chill for at least an hour before rolling out.

2. Slice up the potato into 1/8-1/4-inch slices and set aside. Thinly slice the onion and toss in a saute pan with the olive oil, thyme, and some salt and pepper. Sauté until soft and lightly colored. Set aside to cool. Shred the Gruyere and crumble the blue cheese. Toss the potatoes, onion, and cheeses together and set aside.

3. Preheat oven to 375F. Roll out the dough out to 14-inches in diameter and of even thickness. Move to a parchment paper-lined baking sheet. Spread with a layer of mustard. Layer on the potato and onion mixture, leaving a 2 inch border. Fold in the 2-inch bordered edge over the filling and pleat the edges.

4. Bake for for 45-50 minutes or until crust is golden and the potatoes are easily pierced with a fork. Serve.

Eat Beast Update #12: Corn

-Predator and prey.-

One of the most amazing and frustrating things in the universe is just how quickly it can screw you when you least expect it. Even, technically, when you should know better and could have prevented the said screwing in the first place. Like realizing that the even though you found the five cents you needed to buy that ice cream cone you probably should have tied your shoes so you didn't trip and lose that precious scoop of mint chip on the hot asphalt and scrape up your arms and knees, your treat and top layers of skin sacrificed to the Clumsiness Gods. (Stupid running shoes.)

These instances strike without warning or your knowing better. Take my corn for example:


Beautiful, is it not? We planted six stalks of them, each of them growing strong and tall. We knew we would only get about two cobs from each stalk and though that wasn't a lot between three people it meant that we would have four good meals with our homegrown corn. Sure they would grow as tiny, stunted half cobs, but they would be our cobs. Grown from our soil. Food we had tended and cared for with our own hands and fretful worries. None of us had grown corn before and we knew nothing about how to care for it. We winged every decision, a roll of the dice. When to water, allowing the clover to grown between the stalks, pollinating by hand just in case. Yet, somehow, it worked.

They had overcome such adversity too. An incredible heat wave followed by a sudden downpour that would have made Noah freak caused us to worry. A neighbor cat brushed against two of the stalks knocking them down. We found them one morning at an acute angle, the stalks leaning against the old wooden fence with their once fluffy peaks smashed and bristled like old paint brushes. Yet, somehow, they actually propped themselves back up. A feat I wasn't aware corn was capable of. This corn had vim and vinegar and as such we decided to serve a few cobs with balsamic when they were ready in order to honor their tenacity.

The worse scare was when the ants came in. Droves filing up and down the stalks; black vertical stripes running across each leaf and pouring from the husks. Tearing one open we found not only ants, but whole aphid nurseries. Thousands snuggled between the satin layers and silk threads. Yet each cob had been spared. Not a single insect had penetrated the inner linings of the husk and reached the starchy sweetness that laid within. What luck!

We quickly harvested all the corn, they were nowhere as impressive to the dispassionate eye as ones from any market, but to us they were OUR corn; beautiful; the way any parent finds their child (without the plans to eat them, of course).

We washed and husked them and left them on the counter, counting on the wonderful ways we would eat them the next day.

The next morning I awoke like I usually do; to the incessant, unnaturally loud yowling of the cats for me to feed them ten minutes before my alarm goes off. Mace knows to sit and scream just to the right of the doorway on the hallway side. From this strategic vantage point he knows he is safe from any possible line of fire and cannot be creamed with a clumsily but fiercely chucked pillow. I am left with no choice but to rise like an extra in George Romero film and lumber over to the kitchen to feed the fuzzy bullhorn/vacuum I frustratingly endearingly call Eat Beast.

As I walk to his bowl I step on something somewhat wet. Looking down I see them: two corn cobs, massacred; their kernels scattered across the carpet. I realize that this is my corn. My beautiful corn that I cared for and finally picked. I turn to Eat Beast and see that he's already hiding under the chair. Apparently, in waking me up to eat he forgot that he was going to get in trouble for his snack. His critical error. I grab a cob and chuck it at him and peg him on the butt before he can run away to leave me to clean the mess. I know he has gone into my closet to hide. He squeaks out an audible little mew. Not so much an apology out of penitence but out of insincerity and want. After all, breakfast has yet to be served.

The carnage reminds me of scenes from tornado shows you see on the Weather Channel where a wind funnel tears through a home or office building sending debris in every direction. I imagine that this was very much like that, only yellow and sweeter. This meant I got to play clean up crew first thing in the morning. Goody.

The cobs are only half destroyed each. Apparently the fat bastard decided to have two different snacks, and that simply gorging one whole one wasn't quite wasteful enough. No, he went and took a second off the counter and dragged that across the floor to only eat a few mouthfuls of it. The pernicious corn Hoover apparently enjoys being wasteful.

Cleaning is a pain. The uncooked starch from the kernels has glued them into the carpet fibers. I can't break out the vacuum as Roommate is still asleep, and I'm still too tired to really get those basic motor functions working at a digital level to be able to pick up every single canary-colored speck of corn out of the floor. Still, it gets done. Sort of.

I bag the rest of the corn in a ziplock and toss it into the fridge. The other two cats get fed (when BF moved in along came his cat as well, we are now at three). Eat Beast sits next to his dish and looks at me. He has forgotten he is in trouble, or, knows he is in trouble and is willing to risk trouble for food. He will risk everything for food.

"Nope. Sorry cat. You apparently already fed yourself." He seems unfazed. He hops onto the couch and curls up for a nap. I go to the bathroom and ready a shower. My feet and hands are sticky from corn bits, and I'm going to be late for work.

-"Why, hello there, little corn."-

Eat Beast Update #11: Hooka-Hooka-Hooka-Bleagh

That's the name of the sound I hate. I hate it because I know upon the sound of the first "Hooka" the following things:

1) Eat Beast has eaten something that he shouldn't have. Again.

2) That bending on my hands and knees scrubbing the carpet with a damn rag and stain remover is in my immediate future.

While Eat Beast's stomach is admirable in its ability to digest nearly anything, which admittedly is a keen source of entertainment at times as he devours marshmallows and habaneros like great whirlpools sucking down doomed ships at sea along with their wailing crews, some things simply don't agree with him.

Spiders, bits of carpet (though that one is hit or miss), milk caps, and for some reason rice crackers are indigestible to him. Not that he doesn't try. He's a tenacious little puss, and just because that one piece of banana peel didn't stay down, by golly, that doesn't mean the next piece won't. And if the next piece doesn't then maybe the piece he just threw up a few minutes ago will. (But probably not.)

Still, these little errors in feline gastronomic judgment mean for me that I need to be at the ready with cleaning supplies before the rank of bile and tossed up *insert anything ingestible here* destroy my new carpet.

Normally, it's not all that bad. Today, however, was.

To keep Fatzilla out of the trash and pantry I installed childproof locks on most of the kitchen cabinets. As extra security all pantry items not in cans or unopened bags are stored in sealed glass containers to prevent him from getting into them. The trash is pushed to back of the cabinet so he doesn't reach in through the door crack that he can open with his paw, knock over the trash can and then pull out various tasty trash bits to snack on. Seriously, we have the place on lock down. If we don't he snacks on open bags of brown sugar and bacon greased soaked paper towels as if it were his last meal.

-"By the way, I ate the trash again. You're welcome."-

Fatty also knows that he runs the risk of these raids being just that. Not that it stops him. To him the possible reward is totally worth getting in trouble for.

Now, apparently, after a bit of cooking the other night I had forgotten to close the trash cabinet door the whole way. As I sat on the couch typing away at the thesis in an attempt to decipher just how Slow Food's use of religious language could be unwittingly exclusionary I heard the familiar sound.

"Hooka-Hooka-Hooka-"

I turned my head and became alert. I scanned the room and there, under the table, sat the black form of Eat Beast with neck stretched out, shoulders pointed high in two fuzzy peaks, and mouth wide open with tongue out as bile-ready sluice.

"-BLEEEEEEAAAAAAGH!"

A chunky, chartreuse stream poured out over the carpet. Eat Beast then went to standard sitting position, looked and me, then walked off to the other room at a brisk pace in order to evade the scene leaving me to take care of his mess and wish I had decided to get a turtle instead.

Now chunky, chartreuse throw-up made up of chewed up beet ends and the crusty, moldy insides of an old cream cheese wrapper is a bitch to get out of the carpet. It's a bitch of a stain that even when attacked immediately requires plenty of oxy-clean and elbow grease. Scrub it like the you're bastard offspring of Mr. Clean and Cinderella because beets + bile + old cheese = death to your carpet.

Luckily, after a ten minute cleaning session, I was done. The carpet was saved but a faint stain was still visible if you knew to look for it. I gathered I would eventually forget about it and the stain would be out of peripheral sight and out of mind.

My hands smelled awful, a combination of sewage treatment plant and freshly cleaned office building bathroom. I began to wash my hands when just then, from my bedroom...

"Hooka-Hooka-Hooka-"

"The Twice Baked Christmas" A Holiday Nursery Rhyme

-A little annual Christmas tradition on Vanilla Garlic. Happy Holidays everyone!-

"The Twice Baked Christmas"Sitting down on the couch while reading a book
I enjoyed a moment of silence, something I had forsook.
Earlier that day I had been baking all kinds of bread,
For this Christmas I had dozens who had to be fed.

There were crumpets and muffins, with berries by the pound.
Croissants and cupcakes where the frosting did mound.
The challah was braided, the sticky buns rolled,
All wrapped up so pretty it could have been sold.

The last batch of cookies were cooling on racks,
The kitchen been cleaned, the trash all in sacks.
When from my sweet reading I heard noise! Such a clamour!
It sounded like the plates were being smashed with a hammer!

I ran to the kitchen to see what had caused racket this hour
When there was a black cat all covered in flour.
The cookies all eaten, the crumbs on his face,
He was so full and so fat he could not move a pace.

The wrapping paper shredded, the goods all devoured,
The cat he then saw me and thus he so cowered.
He then took off like a bolt, a dark streak of light.
I could not have caught him, it was pointless to fight.

I called out, "Kitty-kat, what have you done!
This food was for family and friends, every bun!
They cannot eat nothing, it's Christmas today!
They all will be hungry, this sad holiday."

He then sulked on in, the fatty feline,
He felt guilty for eating all that had taken such time.
Meowing, "I am so sorry, I couldn't resist.
It all smelled so tempting, tastes I couldn't have missed!"

"Please let me help make all the pastries again,
Together we'll bake up a hundred times ten!"
I agreed and accepted his apology
And so we began our late-baking spree.

The next morning we finished, the flour all spent
The eggs had been cracked, the sugar had went.
But that Christmas day, the bread was all gifted
Bellies were full! Spirits were lifted!

And so that here ends a near holiday disaster,
A good thing, it couldn't have been solved any faster.
And so from the two of us, we hope you do take
A lesson which is this: Watch everything that you bake.

Happy Holidays from Garrett and Eat Beast!
Picture by Janelle Persinger

Eat Beast Update #10: And So It Gets Worse

"I think your cat is bleeding?"

"What?!" Even in a feverish haze those words are enough to spring me into an adrenaline rush. My mind and body and now synched up along a perfect axis and I am now in concerned pet-parent mode. Regardless of the fact I've been unable to even crawl out of bed without becoming exhausted I have now thrown off the blankets, jumped over the couch and run up the stairs at blinding speed. Whereas three seconds ago my brain was mushy lump it now buzzes with the energy of a Tesla coil focused in on a single point.

As I reach the top of the stairs I look down to see small drops and pools of red liquid across the carpet. "Which cat?" I ask.

"Mace," the roommate points him out in my room. Inside Mace, aka Eat Beast, is sitting on the floor his back turned to me.

"Mace? Mace Face? You okay?" As I reach out to pet him he quickly turns away. I instinctively grab him and pull him close. Normally, Mace is about as relaxed as hell. He'll let me rub his tummy, use him as a bench press weight, or throw him over my shoulders like he were a feather boa. Physical inspections have never been a problem. For him to want to get away he has obviously done something wrong.

My tone changes. "Maaaace, what did yo-" A small cranberry falls out of his mouth. "The heck?" I look at Eat Beast as he licks his lips his eyes begin to stare into the corner. There, behind a broken, old television I've been meaning to toss out I see the hidden bag of cranberries.

Apparently he had stolen the entire bag from off the counter, dragged it upstairs, and had begun to eat them. After eating too many he had then thrown them up so he could make room for more cranberries. The spots all over the floor weren't blood, but bits of cranberry stained red blobs of saliva and cat vomit.

He wasn't bleeding, he was just binge eating. And binge purging.

My cat now has two eating disorders.

Goody.

Eat Beast Update #9: Where did my pancake go?

Oh, there it is.



Little bastard stole a buckwheat pancake. This time I was smart enough to catch him unashamedly devouring the evidence. Notice how he doesn't give a shit that he's been caught. He looks directly at me, then the camera, then continues snarfing it down. This is what happens when I turn around to nibble on bacon and watch Amelie.

I should note this is only hours after he stole some onions from the pan I roasted a small duck in for lunch. He was on a culinary crime spree.

At least he has good taste.

Eat Beast Update #8 - Wait Till You See Him Do Tequila Shots

"Can cats drink Everclear?"

"Huh?" My friend Jeremy, a veterinarian, was over with his boyfriend having dinner. As such, I decided to pump him for some free advice in exchange for food and asked the question I had been curious about since the night before.

"I mean logistically. Can their anatomy even handle alcohol?"

"No." He replied matter-of-factly, undaunted in his certainty in this scientific fact.

"Yeah, well, once again, Eat Beast has proven nature and science wrong. Last night I left a glass of Everclear unattended when I went upstairs and he drank it. Like three ounces on his own."

"Oh my God! Is he okay!? He should be dead!"

"Yeah, he just wandered off and took a nap like nothing happened. Just like he did with the butter, the habanero peppers, and an entire bag of bagels. I kid you not, the cat is abnormal. I mean most humans can't eat what he does. It was the equivalent to a human drinking an entire bottle of the stuff. He's a fat fuzzy black hole that can drink his owner under the table."

"Damn." His face was twisted with befuddlement.

"Feel free to take him with you when you go for scientific study. I could use some peace and quiet around here."

My Reasons for New Jars

See, my new jars? Shiny, new, orderly. A place for everything, and everything in its place. True, you may at first attribute this to a sort of obsessive compulsory need. That I may have indeed dozens of identical jars for all my spices and keep all my napkins in tight same-folded bundles (I do).

Still, this was out of necessity.

You see, I walked into my apartment tired from work and was suddenly stuck that something was amiss. My normally well vacuumed floor was blotched with white and speckled with tan grit everywhere. Immediately the cats took off up the stairs as fast as their four little death-row fuzzy feet could climb.

A quixotic look upon my face, and near panic and horror began to set in. This was obviously going to piss me off to near biblical proportions.

The entire floor was covered in what used to be the food in my pantry. The cats had found a way to get into my dry cupboard, grab the bags of food, and then apparently have a Sugar-N-Grain-Aggeddon in my living room.

I could follow the trail where evidently a chase for a bag of powdered sugar had taken place. A snowy path weaved through the legs of the dining table and chairs and over the couch, then back to the kitchen. A second set of paw prints imprinted themselves in the freshly marked white speedway.

Dessicated coconut was in small piles here and there. Apparently one attempted to eat it and when the other cat came to investigate he would pick up his tropical treasure and begin his grazing once again.

Bags of yeast had been gorged and vomited like a Kitty-Kate Moss with a sandwich. I worried that bits of yeast in their stomach would kill them before I had the chance to do so myself. Turns out it just gave them the runs, gas, and small kitty burps of sorts. FUN!

Lentils were everywhere, I could here them click and crunch under my shoes. They were invisible against the backdrop of my carpet. The cats apparently did not care for them, but insisted on destroying the bag anyway out of a sense of destructive totality. If you're going to do something, go all the way right?

Needless to say, there was much yelling. As I cleaned I chased them a bit with the vacuum, which only served to cause fear which apparently leads to more yeasty cat farts.

Afterwards I threw most everything away, went to World Market and bought some jars, restocked my basics, and packed everything away. My weekend project is also to install some child-locks on all cabinets.

They can't crack those, I hope.

Eat Beast Update #7 - Mace on Ice

"Mace?" I called out. I got down on all fours and scanned under the couch, illuminating the crevice with the neon blue spectral light on my keychain.

The Eat Beast had been missing for a while, I only noticed due to the overwhelming quiet I had been experiencing for more than four minutes, which is never a good sign. Its a similar silence like being in the center of a hurricane, a temporary lapse of deafening silence and apprehension before everything goes screaming to shit.

"God damn it, Mace..." I checked behind the T.V. and in my closet, both spaces he's not allowed but conquers daily. I moved over to the dining space where I keep his automatic food dispenser, a device I bought to feed him at 4 am (his self-designated feeding time) so that I could sleep in without being meowed at. I preformed my last-ditch-never-fail-siren-kitty-call. I shook it. A sound which always calls the furry bastard.

*shake shake shake*

Nothing. "The hell...?" I was astonished. This had never happened before. The fat little bastard always came for food. I mean Christ, the floor is collapsing in front of the food dispenser where he sits to punish his daily feedings.

*shake shake shake*

Patience.

"Meeeeeeeow" *scratch scratch*

"Mace?"

*scratch scratch*

I turned around, "Mace... Oh my God, please do not tell me..."

"MEEEEOOOOWWWWW!"

The fridge door was slightly ajar.

So I opened it fully. The light had barely a chance to go on and the door to swing open before a fuzzy black bolt shot out, with a quick questionable mrowring-sound of impatience that was soaked with sarcasm saying "About damn time."

I stood aghast for a second and momentarily hurled the most colorful language I could think of at the cat for being so stupid and for me for apparently not noticing his sneaky entrance into what was his apparent chilly nirvana. My mind caught hold for a moment, swinging the fridge door open I looked inside to find a partially eaten package of butter.

I must take a moment to expand on the butter scene, you see he could have only been there for four or five minutes tops. The butter, still in it's aluminum laced packaging had been dismembered. Total carnage. Mace had devastated it like a dairy sucking hurricane. The word hurricane is a accurate choice, for much like a natural disaster, the wreck from the fatty melee was apparent and expansive. Somehow chuncks of butter had escaped THE MAW and been splattered upon the walls and floor of the fridge in gross patterns, like a English muffin had been brutally murdered. The feline machine was not content to simply lick or chew the butter but rather decided to be its gustatory apocalypse.

Apparently, when I had put the unused butter back a short while earlier I didn't close the fridge door all the way. He had pushed his way in and made way for the prize. However the door partially closed, but not sealed, behind him and he hadn't been able to push it back open. Whether this was due to laziness or stupidity, a combination of the two being the most likely, he had gotten stuck.

Seriously... does anyone else have this problem?

Eat Beast Update #6 - He's a Big, Spicy Meatball

It's been a while since we had an Eat Beast update, so I guess it's time to bring you back into the fatty fatty fat fat kitty cat loop. Well, Rob and I are still trying to teach him some manners, but most of it to no avail. In fact we've started using his gluttony for out own entertainment and are attempting to simply use that voracious momentum to our advantage.

We've learned in addition to limes, he won't eat radishes. Too stinky. He'll bat them around, but not eat them. He also has an odd habit of smacking them at Cid, who also hates radishes and runs from them. You have to imagine the scene: Cat runs by, followed closely behind by a radish skidding across the floor, followed by a fuzzy black blob.

He will however, lick chili powder off the counter. Let me explain, we read that by sprinkling chili powder and cayenne pepper around places we do not want the cats to go, they'll be so offended by the smell and by trying to lick it off their paws that they'll just avoid the area all together.

Not so with Eat Beast. Eat Beast simply proceeded to simply lick THE ENTIRE COUNTER CLEAN. Not a speck of cayenne or chili powder was left. I was grossed out and astounded all at the same time. I was also very sure to clean the entire area with comet to remove the fine coat of cat spit from my food prep area (YUM! he also licks his butt! gotta love that tongue all over your counter!).

I'm not kidding. He's also taken to some red chili's I had left hanging to dry out, so I had to move them outside where he wouldn't get to them. I mean hell, most PEOPLE can't eat like this.

He wasn't sick at all. He simply ate it all in stride. No pain.

As for using his appetite to my advantage I have used his food to teach him to stand and beg at a startling pace. I guess gluttony can inspire the most slothful creatures to do the amazing.

We also trick him into the tub for bath times by throwing a kernel of food in. He dives in after it, completley oblivious that we have now fooled him into his watery torture about 8 times now the same way, and then BAM!, he gets hit with the soaking heavy towel (to pin him down due to the fact that five of his six ends are sharp and pointy; plus it's much easier than running water) and shampoo.

I'm hoping to teach him more tricks, but he has no attention span, so I think stand up is about as good as it will get. He gets too anxious to actually sit down and be still when he sees the treat, the fat fuzzy bastard.

Eat Beast Commands You to Buy Baked Goods

This post is for those of you in Sacramento who have a big heart and a sweet tooth. This Thursday there's going to be quite a nifty bake sale going on. It's to help raise money for the Happy Tails Pet Sanctuary. It's a no-kill, no cage pet home for kitty cats that need a home and some lovin'.

Kristy and I are planning to donate some tasty baked goods, which in my case means, duh, cupcakes. So be sure to pick some up.

Personally, I'm very happy to do this as both of my cats are shelter kitties. Actually, let me tell you why Mace the Eat Beast is such an Eat Beast to begin with.

Mace was actually living with 9 other cats in a car. Locked inside, 24/7, sleeping amongst all the cats and cat waste with fresh air coming in through only one cracked window. The owner would only feed them once in a while, so when he had a chance at food, he had to compete for it and be sure to eat as much as he could since he never knew when his next meal would be. When we adopted Mace he was skinny as a rail with ribs showing, and light as a feather. When he started getting regular meals, he had already ingrained an instinct to eat as much as possible as it would possibly be his last meal.

Mace was actually a lucky cat as he was taken out of that environment early on when he was still a kitten and found a home. I know I complain about him a lot, but he's actually a total sweetheart, and I wouldn't trade him for the world.

So do all those felines out there a favor and buy some baked goods this Thursday, June 7th on 11th and L on the Capitol Grounds at the Capitol Building here in Sac. They'll be on sale from 8am-3pm.

Eat Beast Update #5 - The Next Bigfoot Stole My Egg Salad Sammich!

This is Cid. Cid is our good cat. The well mannered one, minus his habit of opening every drawer and cabinet in the apartment that is. But his eating habits are normal, and don't irritate me in any way.

Until recently that is. Mace, the Eat Beast's, eating habits are wearing off on Cid. Cid, when I wasn't looking, snatched a piece of egg salad sammich away from me. It's the first time he's ever done this, so he got a good scare when I squirted some water at him and I doubt it will happen again.

However, the second I go to photograph the evidence for a post about this, what should happen? The Eat Beast, who possesses supernatural abilities when it comes to food, suddenly swooped down and stole the piece of sandwich right as I clicked the picture! Then *poof* he was gone when I moved the camera away from my face.

Like photographing Bigfoot or a UFO, all I have is a blur on film that can't either confirm or deny anything. You just have to take my word for it. It's the Eat Beast striking once again. Seriously, how does something so goddamn fat move so quick?

Eat Beast Update #4 - The Potluck Sin, Fatty Strikes Again!

I committed a total potluck sin today, or what's a sin in my eyes at least. I brought store bought, pre-made brownies. I have a valid excuse though, so hear me out.

I was making the trusted Chipotle Cinnamon Coco cupcakes again since I was crunched for time and money. Suddenly Rob called me out to the other room, so I left the completed batter unattended. No sooner did I walk back out but what do I see? Mace, the Eat Beast, has both paws in the batter and his head literally half buried in it to the point where his ears cupped over the batter so I don't know if he could actually hear me yelling at him.

It was akin to if you had a large bowl of soup, and then stuck your entire head in as a quick way of eating to eliminate any middle men like hands or utensils. He was actually eating with his head almost fully submerged in cake batter.

He then came up for air, saw me, and knowing he was in trouble took off to hide from getting swatted or squirted with water. In the process, of course, flinging cupcake batter E-V-E-R-Y-W-H-E-R-E. Then of course I had to clean the apartment and him. The batter was of course unusable to all but Eat Beast.

Silly me for not gaurding the bowl with sliced limes. Damn cat.

Eat Beast Update #3 - Limes are his Kryptonite

The eat beast has a weakness! He dominated lemons, devoured hot peppers, stole bacon, purloined bagels, and stickypawed more than a few chips and crackers. He even threw his face into a bowl of cereal while I was still eating it and looking the other way.

Yes, he won't eat limes. Detests them. I can put a slice of lime in a bowl of food and he won't go near it. He'll pace around and inspect it for hours. HOURS. He'll attempt to swat at it in hopes it might run off, but to no avail. It's crazy. And by crazy I mean tormenting him this way if non-stop fun.

Finally, now if I can just figure out a way to utilize this weakness. For something aside from my own twisted entertainment I mean. (I feel like Lex Luthor, only Superman is a fatty fat fat McBlobicus covered in black hair and obsessed with licking his groin and eating.)

Eat Beast Update #2 -or- Technical Difficulties

So this blog may be sans pictures for a while (or at least original ones). Why? Well while downloading some pictures, Eat Beast decided to knock my camera onto the hard tile floor, breaking the cover / turn on thingamajig, and the doohickey which keeps the battery and memory card in place and not everywhere else like the floor or my desk.

Rob is trying to jerryrig the damned thing as I write this so maybe I can get another photo or two out of it. However, it's certainly not making any trips anytime soon. I plan to either 1) finagle my budget around and see if I can buy another, or 2) pray to Santa that I get one for Christmas, though that would mean a blog with no pictures for a month, which would really piss me off.

The blog will still update regularly, but just not so many original pictures, so you may see more food histories, essays, short stories, and restaurant reviews rather than recipes (and thus *cry* cupcakes). On the other hand, maybe this is a good thing, it's a chance to branch out a bit more and challenge myself to write some different stuff.

I guess I'll be doing more overtime this week, more than normal anyways. Although I was planning to do more already with Christmas coming up, but whatever. Guess where I'll be this Saturday if I can convince payroll to let me?

Eat Beast Update #1

Not much to report. The title is misleading, I know. BUT, I finally bought a zester from Le Creuset (not an actual pot I know). *sigh* I can finally stop using my cheese grater to obtain zest, a total plus.

I also bought Eat Beast an electric auto feeder. Why, you ask? Well he has decided that his morning feeding time should be 4:30 am. Should I refuse he will meow, scratch the door, the walls, and knock shit over. I had to get my cell out from under the fridge this morning. There is no stopping him. Thus the electric feeder will feed him in the morning and save me stress and the daily decision of strangling him to death or showing mercy. Mercy is the usual choice since at this godforsaken time of day I am lazy and tired. Last night he got so hungry and imaptient he also a WHOLE bag of craanberries. I mean, I can't even do that.

EAT BEAST'S FOOD DECIMATION THUS FAR:

• 1 chopped onion
• 2 jalepenos
• 1 bag of cranberries
• 1 bag of wheat bread
• 1 bagel
• unknown number of tortilla chips
• some chopped carrot
  

He shows no signs of wekaness in any way. He cannot be stopped. Any attempt to do so and men will die (or just get really annoyed by his meowing).













Mace: "This bowl is empty! Where's my fucking dinner?!"

The Eat Beast

This is Mace. He's an eat beast. Not only does he fly into his food so hard, face first, that his food literally explodes across the floor, he is fat. Fat and dense; the density hides how heavy he really is. He doesn't look it but he weighs about the size of a small moon, complete with his own gravatational pull. Spiders and pink catnip mice orbit his furry girth.

He's also more of a foodie than me or anyone reading this. How is that you ask? Well, the little fat bastard will steal grilled cheese sandwiches, chopped onions, bacon grease, jalepenos, chocolate, and anything you don't stop watching. He also will stalk and then leap head first into the television in order to eat the ground hogs on Animal Planet, causing some likely head trauma. We also have to watch him like a hawk around poor Cid's food bowl or Cid won't eat. I mean lord, Rob and I don't even eat like this.

He will sit by his food dish regardless how much water you spray at him, shake a can of pennies at him, blow with a can of air, and generally refuse to budge until he eats. And he lets you know this by meowing. A lot. I mean A LOT. I have even tried a light form of garlic and cayenne pepper, and all it's done is give him a love of Mexican food and the inspiration to steal my enchiladas.

Anyone have any advice?

P.S. For pictures of a hilarious fat pug, go here.

Update 8/23/06: I came home to find he ate an ENTIRE LOAF OF BREAD! What the hell?! Little fatty. Hmm... maybe a trip to the vet is in order. We're definetly feeding him enough, so maybe it's a thyroid thing. Still, a whole loaf of bread?